Make Insurance Doubly Sure
I had barely dozed off when my phone buzzed. With a scowl, I picked it up.
“I am Sweety, calling from Noida,” said a soft voice, its tone suggestive.
If I had more imagination, I could have believed the voice to be an erotic whisper. Indeed, there was a time when such a husky murmur would have made my heart turn a couple of somersaults. Now it merely filled me with sudden dread that the missus would overhear the femme fatale and demand to know who she was.
“Yes?” I said cautiously, still half-asleep.
“Sir,” she murmured “You see as I’m sure, hence, about to expire!”
I sat up bolt upright! Why should some sultry siren telephone me to announce her own impending demise?
“Huh? What? What?” was all that I could manage.
“Sir, your Ciaz insurance is about to expire.”
Ah! The insurance cover on my car was indeed about to end, but only after two months. I was in no hurry to renew it.
Yet that siesta-disrupting call kicked-off a phase of prolonged misery. The fault, of course, was entirely mine. Instead of meekly renewing my car’s policy with ABC Insurance Company—the path of least resistance —I decided to be clever. Year after year I had paid ABC hefty insurance premiums without ever troubling them with a claim. Surely, I reasoned, a careful reading of the fourteen-page policy document might reveal some clause that would let me recoup part of my money. What I discovered instead was a masterpiece of legal exclusion tucked away in the fine print: “No claim shall be admissible for damage to plastic, rubber or glass parts.”
Only days earlier I had watched a roadside mechanic perform miracles on a rather fancy (but dented) car. He poured boiling water over the bonnet, applied a suction plunger, and the dent vanished!
“Sir Ji,” he explained cheerfully, “These cars are mostly plastic. Just pour hot water and the dent is gone!”
If plastic, rubber and glass were off-limits, insurance cover extended only to the chassis and engine block. I had a sudden, vivid vision of myself after a spectacular accident: ABC Insurance punctiliously settling the claim and then giving a bare chassis fitted with four hubcaps as replacement for my totalled car!
This thought made me resolve to never again patronise ABC Insurance.
Even as I was mulling the issue, some guy named Morth began bombarding me with unsolicited messages. He warned me to renew before the due date or face the wrath of the law. How he knew the precise expiry date of my policy remained a mystery until Gopu enlightened me.
“My dear friend,” he said, “MoRTH is the Minister of Road Transport and Highways.”
“Oh,” I exclaimed. “How flattering! Gadkari Ji himself is taking an interest in my insurance affairs!”
Unfortunately, MoRTH was not the only vigilant one. An infinite number of insurance companies mysteriously knew my phone number, as also details of my insurance, and were deeply concerned that I would disregard the perils of gallivanting around in uninsured cars. I started getting calls and messages at every hour of the day and night: “Your motor insurance is expiring soon. Severe penalties await those who drive uninsured cars.” Some were merely pushy. Others were downright insulting. A few threatened me with a fine of two thousand rupees if I did not immediately shell out the demanded ransom.
One particularly enterprising firm warned that “Premium may increase anytime,” so I should buy a new policy immediately. Another informed that this was “the last call.” I wondered whether they imagined themselves as the Archangel Gabriel announcing the end of time, or Ronnie, the club bartender, calling last orders.
Finally, after comparing the offerings of BCD, EFG, HIJ and other alphabetical hopefuls, I purchased a fresh policy from XYZ a full two weeks before the old one expired. Unfortunately, due to some disturbance in the space-time continuum, the multitudinous insurance companies remained in the dark that I had bought a new policy. So their agents continued to call, only to seem heartbroken — or sometimes insulted — when informed that I had already defected. One accused me of betrayal. Another demanded an explanation, as though I had reneged on a proposal to marry her. A third cursed me for abandoning ABC and cautioned me against supping with the devil.
The warnings that had begun a full month in advance rose to a crescendo as the last date approached. I started getting daily warnings: “Your policy will expire in 10 days.” Then nine. Then eight. Till: “Your coverage will end tomorrow.” On the actual day of expiry there was silence. The day after, however, I received a gratuitous update: “Your insurance coverage expired 01 days ago.”
I would have been amused, except for one sad fact. I have examined the fine print of the XYZ 20-page policy with the same forensic attention that I had devoted to ABC. It contains, almost word for word, the clause about nixing claims for glass, plastic and rubber parts!
Some battles, it appears, cannot be won.
Now I live in dread that one of these days, Sweety with her husky voice will once again interrupt my siesta and start a fresh countdown, “Sir, your Ciaz car insurance will expire in three hundred and fifty days.”
The Lost Art of Saying No!
The other day, the missus matter-of-factly asked, “Could you spare a minute to give career advice to my friend Sudha’s nephew?”
What began as a polite ten-minute phone call turned into a two-hour monologue about the young man’s dream of becoming a cryptocurrency influencer, complete with PowerPoint slides shared via Zoom. By the end of the conversation, I had promised to review his 47-page business plan, introduce him to “some people I know” and attend his launch event next month, where the dress code is apparently ‘blockchain formal’ – whatever that might be.
As I hung up, I realised with dismay that I had done it again! I had agreed to something when every fibre of my being wanted to refuse.
I would have avoided a lot of misery if I had simply used that magic two-letter word, NO! But I couldn’t even dream of saying ‘no’ to the missus. In fact, I am incapable of saying no to anyone – not even to our Residents’ Welfare Association.
Last week, the RWA WhatsApp group exploded in a burst of messages proposing a grand cultural festival. Our resident Fauji, Brig. Sharma, declared participation was “mandatory for community bonding,” as if he would personally court-martial absentees and make them do twenty push-ups in the neighbourhood temple. Before I could type a diplomatic “Let me check my schedule”, my wife had already replied with three clapping-hand emojis, a “Looking forward!” and a string of firecrackers that somehow implied I would oversee all stage arrangements. I suddenly found that I had ‘volunteered’ to be on the decoration committee and the food committee, as well as a third committee that seemed to be solely meant for preventing hapless volunteers from quitting organising committees.
Social media has twisted refusal into a capital offence. Decline a Facebook event and you receive passive-aggressive messages: “We missed you!” with a sad emoji, as if you had skipped your own Bharat Ratna investiture ceremony at Rashtrapati Bhawan. Decline to sign yet another asinine petition for some stupid cause and you become the subject of three group calls, disapproving of your “strange behaviour since retirement.” The criticism is brutal.
One day, I decided to conduct a personal experiment. I would say no to the very next person who asked for anything and see if the world came to an end. The thought had barely crossed my mind when Kani Babu invited me to join the senior citizen’s walking club.
“No, thank you. I prefer walking alone with my thoughts,” I said.
“Arre, thoughts are dangerous things! Come; come with us. We discuss only religion and politics. Very peaceful. Also, we have a group song about cholesterol.”
Next morning, I had an unsatisfying walk, endured political bickering, and sang off-tune hosannas to statins with Kani Babu and other old fogeys.
My friend Gopu possesses rare diplomatic skills and the remarkable talent of saying no while sounding like he is saying yes. I begged him to teach me, and he condescendingly agreed to share a trick or two, while making it clear that my natural talent for mucking things up would probably ruin everything.
“The simplest is the sandwich method,” he said. “Even an idiot like you should be able to execute it. It’s simple: Compliment-Refuse-Compliment.”
He gave an example. “To a friend asking for a donation, say ‘You have such a generous heart, but I’m afraid I can’t help your good cause, though you always organise everything so beautifully.’”
I tried it yesterday, when the RWA Durga Puja Committee came around asking for a donation of just five thousand. I managed to fob them off: “It’s such a good cause, but I can’t help you. Though I hugely admire the way you organise the puja every year.”
I was euphoric! The sandwich technique worked! I had saved five thousand! But I wonder what I will do with the stall in the Puja Pandal, which has been allotted to me for ‘just’ ten thousand.
In our culture, “Ji Haan!” is the default setting because we are genetically programmed to please. Our ancestors said ‘Yes!’ to just about everything and everyone – invaders and colonisers included. From childhood we are brainwashed to say yes. Yes, to extra rotis, yes to attending every Shaadi, yes to forwarding every ridiculous good-luck WhatsApp message.
Putting one’s foot down and saying ‘no’ has become rarer than an honest politician. Refusal is considered rude, selfish, sinful, and, in extreme cases, anti-national. Saying no feels like breaking a sacred social contract and we are willing to rearrange our entire lives to avoid the mild discomfort of disappointing some stranger.
After much thought, I have concluded that the problem is that we feel compelled to explain every refusal. And because we are often unable to think up a good excuse, we simply say yes.
So pay attention everyone! You don’t need to explain anything. To anyone. Just say ‘No’. I suggest that this should be called a ‘refusal simpliciter’. A simple ‘no’, without sheepish excuses, without humming and without hawing. Or say no and give a reason that is no reason at all. Something like “I am constrained to refuse as a believer of Pratishedhnam Kriya, which I am learning from Swami Nononarayan.”
Believe me, the quality of your life will improve vastly.
A Primer for Dummies with a Death Wish
I am a perfectionist. For that reason, I am dismayed to find so many people, with laudable aspirations, adopting less than perfect methods to achieve their ambitions. Oftentimes, I am disgusted to discover that they develop cold feet or become queasy about success, just when they are within sight of their objective.
The purpose of this short primer is to help the dummies who have a death wish, but are too lily-livered to commit straightforward suicide and, instead, want to die on Indian roads.
I have logged almost 500,000 kilometres on the roads from Okha in Gujarat to Wokha in Nagaland and from of Nagercoil in Tamil Nadu to Nubra in Leh. More importantly, a huge chunk of this mileage has been in and around Delhi, famous for its disciplined wonderful traffic. I am, therefore, best qualified to impart wisdom to those needing the proper techniques of ending it all on the road.
You see; I believe that if something is worth doing, it is doing worth well. So, read these instructions and follow them carefully. They are complicated, but then you do want to do an efficient job, don’t you?
The simplest method to realise your death wish is to walk on the road – any road. Just remember that the bigger the vehicle, the greater your chances of success. Simply step out in front of one unexpectedly, and results are guaranteed. The experts have, unimaginatively, dubbed this manoeuvre The Final Step.
The Final Stepper must note that the colour of his clothes is critical, especially at night. Bright coloured clothes or, worse still, white will nullify all efforts because many a timid driver will spot you and stop. Excellent results are achieved by wearing dark shades of grey or brown. You would then become invisible to any truckdriver and be worthy of being called The Phantom Walker. If the trucks and buses still snub you, outwit them by hiding behind bushes on road dividers. At just the right moment, zip across the road. In technical parlance, this gambit is called The Debonair Dart.
If you do not succeed, buy a bicycle or two-wheeler. These can be wonderful devices for committing suicide. For successful outcomes, people using two-wheelers should follow The Phantom Walker dress code, mutatis mutandis, which will make them The Phantom Riders. Bear in mind that many unscrupulous manufacturers put lights or reflectors at the rear, considerably spoiling the phantom effect. Let that not discourage you – spatter mud on the reflectors and break any taillights. Attention to such detail increases your chances of being rammed from behind.
If quick results are not obtained, execute the 2-wheeler version of The Dart, which is called The Canute Shoot. Easy to learn, this requires finesse to be executed to perfection. It comprises suddenly sticking out your right arm and immediately turning right, across the nose of a speeding car or truck behind you. The crucial element is to not look back but turn. Immediately. An improvement on The Canute Shoot is to wiggle fingers instead of sticking out the arm. And turning. Immediately.
Did I forget to caution you against wearing a helmet? Well do not. Ever. A helmet is a big no-no!
A car opens unlimited prospects for committing suicide. Besides the obvious advantage of momentum, there are niche possibilities involving bald tyres, malfunctioning brakes, defective steering, and speeding. But these are outdated, and despite your diligent efforts, you might merely end up in a ditch. These methods are, at best, useful on hill roads or while driving beside uncovered drains in NOIDA.
More striking methods are available and must be tried. Blaring music, or brawling kids, can divert your attention enough to allow you to ram a tree. Or smoke a cigar and let the ash fall on your lap. You could also let your child toddler take the wheel to execute The Canute Shoot.
Another creative technique for committing suicide in your car is The Weave. This is said to be executed with precision when you overtake five cars alternately from the left and right, and then collide, head on, with an approaching truck. The Truncated Weave can give equally pleasing results. This consists of tailgating a lumbering truck and swinging out with a burst of speed when a bus is approaching from the other direction.
At night, on the highway, you could try a delightful trick, which is called the Bhagalpur Ploy. This comprises an obstinate refusal to dip your lights, thereby blinding drivers of oncoming vehicles. A Double Bhagalpur is accomplished when the driver in front also turns up his powerful LED headlamps. If this does not result in a satisfying collision, you will have only your bad luck to blame.
I have been saving the best for last; and that is the application of the wonderful invention called the cell phone. Exploit it to the maximum. While walking, stuff both ears with ear pods to block out any warning calls or honking. On a bicycle or motorcycle, hold the phone to your ear, so that you barely control the bike with the other hand. In a car, always text while driving. I concede these are sneaky tactics, but you want to get killed, don’t you?
kcverma345@gmail.com
The Monsoon and the Match
The trouble with football is that it makes one thirsty. And the trouble with beer is that no matter how much one buys, it evaporates far too quickly. So, when I ran out of stock last week, I peeled myself off the couch, picked up the car keys, blew an exaggerated kiss to the missus, and descended in the lift to the basement.
My battle plan was elegantly simple – zip to the neighbourhood supplier of essential fluids, buy replenishments, return home in time to watch the second half of the World Cup match.
After the overnight rains, however, the basement parking had other ideas. What greeted me was a vast sea, with most cars submerged up to their hubcaps in oily muddy water. Like some medieval intrepid explorer, I removed my shoes, rolled up my trousers, and waded in.
I had just reached my E20-guzzling chariot when some idiot drove past in an SUV, unleashing a minor tsunami across the basement. Ominous gurgling and sucking sounds followed, as small waves lapped against my car. Suddenly, in addition to fretting about water settling at the bottom of my fuel tank, I began worrying about the bottom of my car settling in a water tank.
I placed my shoes atop the car as I fished around in my pockets for the car key. Opening the door revealed four inches of water inside—enough to fully submerge the pedals in a delightful ‘footbath’. The car sputtered reluctantly to life. Just as I began to move, I remembered the shoes still perched regally on the roof. I stopped, stepped back into calf-deep water, and retrieved them. Naturally, at that precise moment, a brash youngster roared past at full speed, sending a spectacular plume of dirty water that drenched me completely. I shouted some choice words about his mother’s sleeping habits, but the scoundrel was already out of earshot.
Defeated, I sloshed back upstairs, resolving to later send Bassaram, my driver, for beer, as also Black Dog soda, Black & White ginger ale and Black Label luxe blended water. If these beverages were good enough to sponsor FIFA telecasts, they would surely be good enough to quench my thirst—assuming, of course, that such products were even available in Delhi. One must cling to illusions in thirsty times.
Back home, I discovered to my dismay that the missus had switched from the sports channel to the news.
“Why don’t they ever fix Mumbai’s monsoon problems?” she asked petulantly, eyes fixed on the screen. I glanced at the television. The visuals were disturbingly familiar—flooded roads, local trains chugging through waist-deep water, and a romantic couple frozen dramatically against a towering wave on Marine Drive.
The anchor droned on with practised gravitas about sudden downpours, high tides, the overflowing Mithi river, potholes large enough to swallow bikes and riders, and yet another building collapse prompting the inevitable “enquiry to fix responsibility”.
I tried to wrest the remote from my wife, but she flipped to another news channel. There was nothing new in the news. Floods were everywhere—from Ajmer, where one least expects them, to the usual chaos in Patna. On yet another channel, everything seemed to be collapsing: clock towers in Kozhikode, hillsides in Wayanad, tenements in Shimla, and roads in Uttarkashi.
“There’s never anything different, is there?” I asked wearily, wringing out my shirt.
“Yes, there is. So far, the Shivaji Bridge hasn’t submerged this year. Remember how, every monsoon, newspapers ran front-page photos of DTC buses drowning under it?”
“I thought that was the Minto Bridge,” I said absentmindedly.
“That’s what I am talking about, stupid. The Minto Bridge is now called Shivaji Bridge.”
“Ah! So, apparently, changing the name of the bridge has fixed the problem!” I said. A eureka moment struck. “If renaming a bridge banishes floods, why stop there? Darling, let’s change other names too and fix poverty, education and health!”
She shot me the look reserved for particularly stupid husbands. “Shut up! We’ve tried that. Aren’t we Bharat already?”
Another TV channel aired human-interest stories of the denizens of Delhi coping with the downpour. A harried techie from Gurugram described six agonising hours in traffic, his voice cracking like a man who had survived hell. A housewife in Rajendra Nagar showed the camera team her flooded bedroom, a saucepan floating near the door. Then came Ramlal, a cycle rickshaw puller in Patparganj, flashing a toothless grin. He claimed he had earned Rs 600 ferrying children between their homes and the bus stop.
“What about Assam?” I asked. “Isn’t there any coverage of the Brahmaputra? Usually the Barak, Subansiri, Lohit and the rest wreak havoc in the northeastern states.”
“I don’t know,” my wife replied. “Maybe there have been no floods there. Or maybe the channels have no visuals. Or maybe they don’t know that those states are part of India.”
“The rains bring misery year after year and everything is in a mess. The predictability of it all is almost boring. Why doesn’t anyone do anything about it?”
“Why don’t you?” challenged the missus.
“Me? Why should I?” I asked. “Now give me that remote. The replay of last night’s match is waiting.”
The Fault Lies in Our Stars
“Your Bassaram is a rather useless fellow,” I declared irritably.
“Why? What’s he done now?” my wife asked, without even looking up from scrolling the messages on her phone. “And he isn’t my Bassaram. You hired him, remember? You’re the one who keeps praising his driving skills and initiative.”
“He’s useless in critical matters. An hour ago, I sent him to find a brown cow, and he still hasn’t returned.”
My wife looked up, one eyebrow arched like a question mark. “A cow? At this hour?”
“Not just any cow—a brown cow,” I repeated, emphasizing the distinction.
She set her phone aside. “Why on earth do you need a cow?”
I drew a patient breath; the kind one takes before explaining quantum mechanics to an imbecile. “Swami Bhavishyanand said on his astrochannel this morning that Rahu is declining and Vrishchik is ascendant. Vishakha, Anuradha, and Jyeshtha are poorly aligned in my seventh house. He warned those of my sign against traveling west today. If unavoidable, one must feed a paan leaf to a brown cow to avert misfortune. You know I intend to go to the club, which is to the west of our home. Now do you understand why I sent Bassaram to find a brown cow?”
“Do you really believe this nonsense? You rise early every day to watch this organic manure?”
“I’m no blind believer,” I replied, “but one can’t argue with results.”
“What results?” she asked, her tone suggesting that I had joined some cult that worshipped plastic chairs.
“Last week he predicted I would find treasure. Sure enough, I discovered a five-rupee coin near the washing machine.”
“Treasure?” She looked scornfully.
“Then he predicted that I would be indisposed and might see a doctor on Saturday. Remember, I sneezed that morning, and while taking out the trash, I met Dr. Hari.”
My wife spoke slowly, as if to a child. “Dr. Hari is our neighbour—a PhD in Sanskrit poetry, not a physician.”
“Agreed, but he is a doctor, no? The stars sometimes don’t read the fine print.”
Our argument escalated in that special way that only married couples can manage—part philosophy, part petty point-scoring and part non sequiturs.
“How can one prediction apply to one-twelfth of humanity?” she demanded. “Millions sneezing and finding coins simultaneously? The mathematics alone should embarrass you.”
“It works for me. That’s what matters.”
I pressed on with what I considered ironclad logic. “Ten channels air these programs with soaring TRPs. Millions tune in. They can’t all be delusional. It can’t be all mumbo jumbo.”
Maybe I misheard, but my wife muttered something like: “Mumbo jumbo is exactly what it is.”
As I left for the club, I instructed her to lay out my yellow socks. “Deep yellow is my lucky colour today,” I announced proudly.
She merely grunted. Her grumpiness lingered through the evening. At dinner with the Tomars, she committed what I considered domestic treason: pointing out my yellow socks to Mrs. Tomar. The two women kept whispering and sniggering the whole evening long.
Provoked, I resolved to convert her. The next morning, I sacrificed my tea ritual and made her watch the astrochannel with me. But Bhavishyanand was absent!
A saffron-robed sadhvi named Kaal Kumari appeared in his place, solemnly intoning predictions as if each syllable were a heavy responsibility. The ticker announced: “Bhavishyanand will be off air for a few weeks following an accident.”
I stared, stunned. “He… met with an accident?”
My wife burst into laughter. “So much for your oracle. A seer who couldn’t foresee his own mishap. Probably his scooty broke down and a Nano ran right over him! He should have worn red boxers and fed biscuits to a black dog to avert the misfortune!” she mocked.
The image of the great astrologer in crimson underwear, chasing a stray to feed it biscuits, hovered between us. Even I had to smile.
“Perhaps Bhavishyanand isn’t such a hotshot crystal-gazer as I imagined,” I conceded.
My wife looked triumphant.
Then the channel updated: Bhavishyanand’s Mercedes had crashed after overrunning a pedestrian.
“A Mercedes?” Pity for the scooty victim evaporated. Learning that he was riding a Mercedes incensed me beyond reason. “The guy must be a crook, a fraud and a charlatan!” I declared.
I vowed to abandon stupid astrological stuff and sleep late every morning.
A week later, early morning murmurs from the television stirred me. My wife was missing. I found her in the living room, raptly watching the astrochannel as Kaal Kumari discoursed on Saturn, Vakrav and Shadvarg.
“To avoid bad luck on Monday, eat two oranges in the morning and carry the peels in your purse till evening.”
“What crap is this? You wake up early every day to watch this organic manure?”
“To avoid health issues on Tuesday, keep a clove of garlic behind your ear while brushing your teeth. On Wednesday…”
“Shush!” hissed the missus. “I need to note it down carefully. I’ve been watching her every morning and the predictions have proved absolutely accurate for me—love, career, moods, profit, loss. I must follow her advice.”
“Don’t tell me you believe in this bunkum?”
“I’m no blind believer,” she replied serenely, “But the stars speak—loudly, and with uncanny precision. One can’t argue with results, can one?”
kcverma345@gmail.com
Of Belles and Decibels
It happened at the Sethis’ wedding reception last week, that glittering battlefield of rustling silk, shaguns, and plastic smiles. I was headed for the bar with dignified nonchalance —thirst, after all, being the only emotion at such gatherings that requires no pretence—when a vision in sequins and shimmer glided toward me. She beamed with the radiant certainty of someone who had just won the lottery, received a marriage proposal, or perhaps both. I cast a nervous glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to discover a more worthy object of such unbridled delight—a taller, wealthier, or at least better-dressed suitor. But there was no one. Just me, in all the rumpled glory of my five-year old suit. Panic seized my soul. Why was this dazzling creature smiling at me with such familiarity? More pressingly, did we even know her? And if not, would the missus subject me to a thorough cross-examination later?
She drew closer, lips parting to speak. At that precise merciful moment, the DJ unleashed deafening music! Music exploded across the hall – loud, proud and vengeful. The sound swallowed her words whole, leaving her like a goldfish, her mouth opening and closing in silent eloquence. I nodded vigorously, flashed what I hoped was a knowing grin, and made my escape.
If ever a man was saved by decibels, it was I.
The next morning, over coffee and mild domestic interrogation, my wife delivered the coup de grace: the mysterious belle was none other than Mrs. Bose from the floor below. The same lady with whom I have shared the lift umpteen times. Plain, pleasant, almost dowdy, in her everyday avatar. Yet last night, armed with professional makeup, favourable lighting, and enough jewelry to buy a house, she was transformed like beautiful Cinderella!
My narrow escape prompted deeper reflection on our nation’s fervent, almost obsessive-compulsive love affair with noise. In our country, no festival, wedding, political rally, or religious observance feels legitimate without deafening noise in some form. The nagaras, the dholaks, the dhols are all capable of producing noise totally disproportionate to their humble sizes. The nadaswarams, shehnais, and tangmuris add their own insistent, often piercing notes. Above all, it is the modern electronic amplification systems that have raised our cultural fixation to truly epic heights.
Nowhere is this more evident than in the grand marriage processions that snake through city streets, blissfully indifferent to the traffic chaos they leave in their wake. Every barat, especially in north India, must necessarily have brass bands, firecrackers, and DJ sets loud enough to rouse the dead. My friend Gopu, a self-styled cultural anthropologist with a penchant for defending the indefensible, explained in his scholarly manner: “Arre, it’s tradition! The groom must announce his arrival with fanfare, lest someone later accuse him of sneaking off in an Uber at midnight like a common coward.”
“Fair enough,” I countered, “But must they notify the entire municipal area? Couldn’t they just WhatsApp the jealous neighbours of the bride instead?”
“And look what they have done to the sangeet” I continued, “It used to be a sweet family affair. Ladies sitting in a circle with just a dholak, singing folk songs—some sweet, some gloriously bawdy—teasing the bride and groom. The sangeet these days resembles a cheap nightclub with strobe lights. The music is so loud that conversation is impossible and your heart goes boompity-boompity-boom- boom- boom!
Gopu waved his hand dismissively. “Times have changed! Modern sangeet needs ‘vibe’. It needs glitz! It needs oomph! It needs power to shake the building foundations!”
He wasn’t entirely mistaken. Across our social landscape, volume has become the ultimate emblem of status and success. Holi, Diwali, Durga Puja—none are safe. Our communication with the divine needs a sonic boom. Where silence once invited transcendence and inner stillness, we now address the heavens at volumes suitable for addressing stadium crowds. Temple loudspeakers blare bhajans from dawn. Home pujas in high-rises are amplified “for the neighbours’ benefit.” Modest mohalla celebrations feature DJs who think God is deaf.
The automotive world has made its own inspired contributions to the national cacophony. Few sights are as surreal as a humble Maruti Alto or diminutive Nano thumping down the highway as though it has swallowed an entire discotheque. The car seems to dance the bhangra of its own accord—hopping, skipping, and swaying—while the driver rocks to the music, unmindful of the traffic. It is not just the tiny cars that overcompensate through amplifiers. Rumour has it that one Bollywood luminary equipped his ₹5.2 crore Cadillac with forty-two speakers. Forty-two! It should now be described as a mobile disco with, maybe, excellent air-conditioning.
Our obsession with noise, I have concluded, stems from a peculiar discomfort with quietude. We are downright uncomfortable with meaningful conversations which demand presence, listening, and the vulnerability of genuine connection. Far safer, then, to drown potential awkwardness in waves of decibels. Loud music serves as the protective umbrella against making the effort of truly listening to someone else.
As I grow older, I grow wiser. I no longer rail against the inevitable. I have made my peace with nagaras and blaring horns, with screaming crowds and throbbing woofers. I smile vacuously, nod appreciatively, and allow the music to speak for me. In any case, these days I often have little notion of what to say to whom.
kcverma345@gmail.com
We Are Like That Only
All wives are suspicious—but some are decidedly more suspicious than others. My better half occupies the middle of the Gaussian distribution, which is to say that she regards me and my friends with a perfectly normal degree of suspicion. Yet even among my associates, there is one group she views with particular scepticism: the venerable old fogies of the FourEss—our Samosas & Serious Study Set—who gather periodically in the park of our condominium.
She is convinced that our sole interest lies in samosas. While that is not entirely inaccurate, the truth is that we old-timers also devote endless hours to spirited debates on matters as varied as whether pigs have wings and the fitment factor that the Eighth Pay Commission might recommend. Not only do we keep abreast of current affairs, but we also maintain strong opinions on virtually every issue under the sun.
Only last week, we engaged in a heated discussion about the tendency of Indian tourists to break spontaneously into garba at destinations both familiar and obscure. Brigadier Sharma, our resident Fauji, roundly condemned the rascals who, in his view, had tarnished India’s reputation from Saigon to Seattle and Tokyo to Timbuctoo.
Sethi was deeply aggrieved. “Indians are a freedom-loving people,” he declared. “Their exuberance naturally overflows. It is the Suhel Seths and Avay Shuklas of the world who mistake our joie de vivre for boorish conduct.”
But the Brigadier was in no mood to relent. “As a nation, we are undisciplined,” he pronounced. “We need to introspect about why we behave the way we do.”
Basu, who fancies himself to be a management guru, intervened. “We should undertake a root-cause analysis. It all goes back to the East India Company. They took away everything. Whatever little remained had to be abandoned in Pakistan during Partition. We were forced to claw our way back to prosperity without undue concern for niceties such as ethics, honesty, consideration for others, or even the law.”
“Actually, Mahatma Gandhi is to blame,” announced Timir, our daft neighbour from upstairs.
“Gandhiji? How on earth so?” demanded Kani Babu.
“Well,” said Timir, “he called for civil disobedience and never officially called it off. That’s why every patriotic Indian feels obliged to disregard the law, whatever it may be. Whenever one of us encounters a red traffic signal, the latent freedom fighter within springs to life and compels us to drive straight through!”
Misserji, who somehow manages to drag religion into every discussion, drawled in his unmistakable Bihari accent, “Arre yaar, it’s quite simple. It’s a matter of belief. The Abrahamic faiths have the concept of a Day of Judgement. Every person is accountable for his actions. But what do we Hindus have? We have eighty-four lakh yonis—a cycle of nearly eight and a half million births and rebirths. With so many lives to live, a few transgressions in one hardly matter, do they? We are merely pawns and are neither responsible nor accountable for our actions. The Gita says that whatever is happening is for the good, and whatever happens in the future will also be for the good. It is not for us to influence outcomes—everything is preordained.”
This uncharacteristically forceful intervention from Misserji stunned us all into silence. After a pause, Kani Babu ventured, “But what about karma?”
“Karma cannot be escaped,” replied Misserji. “But we don’t have a single vengeful deity. We enjoy a transactional relationship with a pantheon of benign gods and goddesses who can, so to speak, be persuaded with a bit of ‘chai-pani’. Do we not promise a prasad of one rupee and twenty-five paise at the temple in exchange for a fulfilled wish?”
Sethi entered the fray. “It is Jawaharlal Nehru who is really to blame. Because of his misguided notions of secularism, we Sanatanis cannot even impart religious education to our children in schools. They grow up without sanskars and without any clear sense of right and wrong.”
Bhatti cleared his throat theatrically. “I have been an officer of the court,” he intoned.
Now Bhatti has often referred to himself, with considerable pomposity, as a former officer of the court, though he has never clarified whether he served as a factotum in some court registry or as the munshi of a perpetually brief-less lawyer.
“Believe me,” he continued, “the fundamental reason for the deplorable state of Indian society is our broken judicial system. We see hardened criminals enjoying near-unlimited freedom while out on bail. At the same time, countless innocent people languish in jail, only to be released years later without even an apology. Most importantly, almost nobody suffers consequences for breaking the law. When there are no consequences, the law itself becomes meaningless. In effect, India—that is Bharat—is a lawless country.”
Having delivered this sweeping verdict, Bhatti pressed on. “Earlier, only a handful of lower-level police officers lost faith in the judicial process and resorted to staged encounters as a shortcut to controlling crime. Now it appears that even state governments have lost confidence in the judiciary. They routinely turn to encounters and ‘bulldozer justice’.”
Naturally, Gopu insisted on having the final word. “People have lost their ethical compass, so there are no internal restraints. A moribund judiciary has ensured there are no external restraints either. The result? We won’t observe laws! We won’t obey orders! We are like that only. Unapologetic. Unruly. Uncouth. Smug. Proud to be the ugly Indian!”
The Summer of Our Discontent
“Why the bloody hell is it so hot in the summer?” burst out Kim in exasperation, as if the sun had declared a personal vendetta against her.
“Language, lady! Language!” tut-tutted my wife, who has been fighting a losing battle against the granddaughters’ spirited vocabulary.
“And when would you prefer the heat, exactly?” Ekya asked with the flawless sarcasm of an elder sister. “In winter?”
Of course it was hot! Blisteringly, mercilessly, vindictively hot! The sort of heat that induces a stupor and makes you question the wisdom of your ancestors for settling in the scorching plains of northern India.
The four of us—my wife, the two visiting granddaughters, and I—huddled in the bedroom while the air conditioner sat useless in the grip of yet another power cut. The ceiling fan turned in lazy, reluctant circles, emitting a weary hum on the inverter’s diminished voltage.
This year, we have already endured three instalments of summer, separated by cunning little spells of rain that didn’t cool anything. They merely transformed dry honest heat into a stifling, humid oppression. TV pundits, WhatsApp gurus, and those smart-aleck neighbours who spout meteorological knowledge after one Google search, have all been unanimous about the cause: climate change, El Niño, Donald Trump and Jupiter transiting through Aries.
Not one of these worthies, however, has offered any practical advice on how to survive without air conditioning. Or without fans and lights, when sometimes even the inverter collapses due to heatstroke.
“Do you know,” I said, “my mother used to say God made summers hot so that mangoes and lychees could be sweeter? The fiercer the furnace, the finer the fruit.”
“I don’t care about your stupid mangoes or lychees!” wailed Kim. “I just want the AC back!”
Just then the electric supply failed completely. The fan gave one final dramatic sigh and stopped dead. I fumbled around blindly and finally managed to light a candle. The flame flickered weakly, seemingly embarrassed for adding to the heat.
Sitting in that sweltering, candle-lit sauna, my wife attempted nostalgia therapy. “In our day, we cooled ourselves with khus and kevda sherbets and thandai. On the hottest nights, we carried our cots into the garden and slept beneath the open sky.”
“Outside?” Kim asked, horrified, as if her grandmother had confessed to some scandalous family tradition. “Weren’t you afraid of thieves? Or wild animals… or dinosaurs?”
“Dinosaurs?” the missus chuckled. “In Delhi? The only wild creatures that we met were fireflies and mosquitoes. Mosquito nets gave us all the protection we needed.”
“What is a mosquito net?” asked Ekya, puzzled.
“Stupid!” said Kim, with sisterly authority. “It’s obviously something to keep mosquitoes in.”
“No, no!” my wife corrected. “It was to keep them out! We used to drape the fine netting with bamboo poles above the bed. We pretended that we were sleeping inside a little white castle.”
I caught my wife’s eye across the guttering candle and shook my head. There was no way in which she could bridge this particular generation gap.
So, she changed tactics. “When power cuts stretched for hours, we used hurricane lamps and entertained ourselves by throwing shadow puppets on the walls – beautiful butterflies, dogs, and leaping bunnies.”
Kim gave Ekya a questioning look. Ekya returned a sly, conspiratorial smile which said: ‘If she says they made bunnies or butterflies, just nod agreement. Old people are like that only. Even Nana doesn’t always make sense.’
“We also had singing competitions,” my wife continued, undeterred. “Some nights were so hot that sleep was impossible. I used to sprinkle water on my bed for some cool relief.”
Kim asked with innocent mischief, “Nani, till what age did you wet your bed?”
“Why, even till my college days,” my wife replied unsuspectingly.
The girls dissolved into helpless laughter, rolling across the bed as though they had discovered the funniest secret in the world.
“You rascals!” shouted my wife, finally catching on, her face turning a deep red.
“Seriously, Nani,” Kim persisted between giggles, “how did you people cope? No AC, no fans, no nothing. How did you even do holiday homework?”
I interjected. “We had no holiday homework. Summer vacation began the moment the last exam ended. No books, no tuitions, no activity camps, no personality development classes. Summer was simply freedom—unlimited mangoes, journeys to distant places, and visits to grandparents.”
The girls listened, caught between scepticism and envy. In their world, summer means battling both the heat and an exhausting calendar of structured enrichment. In ours, it had meant a freedom so complete that even power cuts became adventures.
As another wave of hot air drifted through the room, it occurred to me that maybe the old summers were not necessarily cooler, but they were borne with greater grace because we didn’t expect comfort as a fundamental right. We suffered with style, sang badly under hurricane lamps, and transformed restless nights and heat rashes into shared stories and quiet celebrations.
Kim suddenly brightened, “Maybe we could try making shadow bunnies.”
Ekya grinned, “Only if Nani promises not to wet the bed again!”
My wife threw a pillow at them. The fan stayed silent. The heat remained triumphant. Yet in that sweltering darkness, we all laughed loudly, drowning out the persistent buzzing of the mosquitoes beyond the windows.
A Ramble in the Republic of Cockroaches
“Isn’t there an utter, numbing boring sameness about our days?” asked the missus, without any preamble.
We had just returned from our morning walk—the usual route. Out the condo gate, once around the municipal garden, dodge the foul-tempered dog at bungalow 54 by crossing the street, and back. Then the compulsory glass of palak-karela juice from the gate vendor, the newspaper tossed in the corridor (which the missus picks up because my back refuses to bend), and finally me sinking into my easy chair on the balcony, like a retired king. From there I could indulgently watch the old fogeys of the laughter club and the aunties in various states of dishabille, attempting yoga with Farida Apa.
I had always found this ritual comfortingly familiar, like a well-worn pair of slippers. But if the missus declared that it was boring, boring it had to be.
“The sight of those old fogeys is so depressing,” she announced. “We’re getting sucked into this geriatric ward of a condo. We need pep! We need zing!”
Now pep and zing are the last things that I need. In fact, most of the pep in my life has been spent on avoiding the zing.
Suddenly, my wife’s eyes lit up with dangerous enthusiasm. “I know! Let’s change houses! Move to a community with younger people—cheerful, spontaneous, positive, with no cares in the world!”
I silently vowed that if we ever moved, she would handle every painful step: broker, registration, taxes, loading, shifting bag, baggage and clutter, and finding a gem of a maid like Phulwanti. That would cure her of her stupid wanderlust.
Aloud, I didn’t even dare groan.
That evening she excitedly told our granddaughter Ekya, “Nana-Nani are changing houses! We’re getting old here with the stale smell of Iodex and Vicks VapoRub. We need younger vibes! We need joy!”
Ekya, showing surprising wisdom, replied, “That’s a silly reason, Nani. There are plenty of young people right here. You two have just been mixing with the wrong crowd. Come for a stroll after dinner—I’ll introduce you to my friends.”
Though reluctant to step out so late, we went. We established ourselves on a bench in the so-called park, grandiosely given this label to justify higher prices
for ‘park-facing units’. Soon a swarm of Ekya’s friends arrived, staring at us like specimens from another planet.
I had always imagined today’s youngsters as freeloaders, resembling pesky cockroaches—blaring music, driving SUVs like maniacs. But these kids looked… normal. Capable of holding jobs and finishing half-marathons. Amazing!
“Ekya says you’re fed up with the oldies here. Believe me, uncle, so are we,” said a girl whose jeans looked like they had been through a paper shredder. “The fat uncle on our floor keeps peeping through the keyhole to watch me pass.”
“That’s nothing,” added a boy with a ten-day bristle. “He intercepts our Swiggato orders and eats them himself!”
“But you all must be enjoying life, no?” the missus asked hopefully.
“Enjoying what?” groaned the boy. “Four hours of sleep, endless work, killer commutes, late-night calls. It’s brutal, aunty!”
A young lady (or possibly a boy with long hair and a squeaky voice) joined in. “It’s the old fogies who create all the tension! They won’t let us party; they complain when we come home late from the office, and refuse to rent to bachelors—especially not on a shared basis. We’re not rowdy college kids crammed ten to a room, guzzling beer till 3 a.m. We’re sober professionals—the salt of the earth, just like you once used to be.”
I winced.
The bristle boy piled on: “Job insecurity, quarterly year-endings, appraisals, credit card bills, overdue EMIs on the car and flat… Your generation only knows how to add to our stress!”
Ekya promptly switched sides. “Yes, Nana. You’ll never understand the fear of suddenly becoming parasites if one loses one’s job. After all, your pension comfortably funds your lavish lifestyle – dal, lauki and rotis without ghee!”
Another young man complained, “My wife and I couldn’t rent anywhere because she uses her maiden surname. We had to buy a flat just to claim rent allowance!”
“That’s completely illogical!” I protested.
“Don’t tell me,” Ekya shot back. “It’s the doing of your generation.”
“Uncle, your generation thinks in cliches. Just because I share a flat with an office colleague doesn’t mean that we are living together. Or probably the way you judge – ‘Living in sin!’”
Ekya’s friends treated us like an outreach project of the oldies for understanding today’s youth. Grievances were listed: difficult life choices, judgmental neighbours, nosy uncles offering useless advice, and aunties prying into everything.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I protested weakly.
“But it’s your generation!” they declared in one voice.
As we sat there on the bench, it became impossible to judge who had a genuine complaint and who might have obtained a fake-degree. The safest move was a hasty retreat.
As we stood up, one young lady said brightly, “Aunty, we have an exercise group. We do Zumba at 10 p.m. and Pilates at 11. My husband does kickboxing. Want to join?”
“No, thank you,” my wife replied firmly. “We prefer our leisurely morning walk, followed by a glass of karela juice. Zumba and protein shakes are not for us. No way!”
kcverma345@gmail.com
Jeeves and the Cockroach Question
“What ho, Jeeves,” I said, drifting into the sitting-room in my favourite dressing-gown, the one with the rather fetching purple dragons. “What, precisely, is a cockroach?”
Jeeves paused in the act of polishing the silver, a duty that he fulfils with the air of a high priest performing a solemn rite. “The common cockroach, sir, Periplaneta americana, is a nocturnal insect of the order Blattodea. It is noted for its resilience, rapid reproduction, and tendency to infest domestic premises, particularly kitchens. It also infests rotten places and can survive a nuclear winter.”
I waved a hand. “Not the six-legged blighter, Jeeves. I refer to some secret sect that seems to have sprung up recently under the leadership of some Deep Kay, in Chicago – on the other side of the pond.”
A faint tremor, almost imperceptible to the untrained eye, disturbed the marmoreal calm of Jeeves’s left eyebrow. “Ah. A metaphorical term that is currently in vogue across the seas where the Blatta orientalis, cousin of the Periplaneta americana, is called a ‘Tilchatta’. I believe the appellation was recently used with judicial precision for a certain class of legal gentlemen. They stood accused of failing to secure employment or a proper place in the profession and, by all accounts, being overly fond of filing pills with the tireless persistence common to their genus.”
“What balderdash, Jeeves! How can one file a pill? You do mean a tablet, don’t you. The kind Lord Emsworth quaffs in vast quantities whenever Aunt Constance is about?”
“I do indeed. But it boggles the mind to visualize a handful of tablets being pressed flat between the covers of an office file.”
“Hang on, Jeeves!” I said. “Maybe we are barking up the wrong tree. Could those bounders be earning the ire of the powers that be because they are scraping pills? Is it possible to place the tablets in a vice sort of thing and abrade the soddy things with a file that carpenters use?”
“I am afraid I find myself unable to offer a satisfactory explanation at the present juncture, sir.”
Never in all my years had I seen Jeeves so stumped by an issue. “Good heavens, man! Don’t tell me you have stopped eating fish! We need all the grey matter you can muster if we are to save the world from any evil coalition of resilient invertebrates.”
“Permit me to venture a guess, sir. The Morning Post, as well as The Times, made mention of a school of thought in India that cockroaches in 50 shades of unemployment have become parasites and infest the corridors of justice. If you will pardon a weak attempt at alliteration, these fellows compound their felony by flaunting fake degrees and favouring fancy notions of freedom of speech.”
I sank into the armchair. “Rather like old Tuppy Glossop, then? He’s always turning up after one has thought him safely squashed.”
“Somewhat analogous, sir. The term ‘parasite’ has undergone a similar linguistic evolution. Once confined to zoology, it is now applied to those who draw sustenance from the body politic without apparent contribution.”
I helped myself to a spot of tea. “I say, Jeeves, this is a bit thick. Have you considered the Drones Club? Bingo Little with his eternal schemes, Tuppy Glossop bouncing back after every romantic disaster, old Gussie Fink-Nottle and his newts, and yours truly — all of us scuttling about Mayfair, living on allowances, dodging honest toil, and displaying a marked reluctance to be squashed by maiden aunts or irate bookmakers. Where does that leave us?”
He considered the question with the gravity of a man weighing the fate of empires. Then with the ghost of a smile he said, “The membership of Drones, sir, would, I fear, qualify en masse. Lord Pershore, Mr. Fink-Nottle, Mr. Glossop, yourself—though I speak with the deepest respect—all exhibit the classic parasitic traits: an aversion to honest toil, a dependence on inherited or borrowed sustenance, and a remarkable capacity for flourishing in environments toxic to more industrious organisms.”
I sat up, rather stung. “Here, I say! Steady on!”
“Purely in the biological sense, sir. The Drones provides an admirable ecological niche—warm, well-stocked with nourishment, and mercifully free of natural predators such as maiden aunts in full cry or irate bookmakers.”
I pondered this. “So we’re all somewhat like cockroaches, Jeeves? Scuttling about the great kitchen of life, dodging the occasional slipper?”
“Metaphorically, sir, yes. Though if I may venture an opinion, the gentlemanly cockroach possesses one signal advantage over many other insects – he does not pretend to be improving the kitchen.”
I chuckled. “You know, Jeeves, there’s something almost comforting in that. I can say with pride – ‘I too am a cockroach!’ Or as those unemployed blighters with fake degrees might shout, “Zor se bolo – Main Bhi Cockroach!”
“Precisely, sir.” said Jeeves.
K C Verma (With just a wee bit of grog and Grok)
The ‘Incorrect’ Nana Meets the Woke Squad
Everyone should be able to withdraw into their own private place when life becomes too much for them. Mine is what I grandly call ‘the study,’ where I slump into an easy chair and watch old Hindi movies on our ancient television set – the one that has knobs.
My fortress, however, is far from impregnable. One day, I was blissfully immersed in a Dev Anand starrer when Ekya stormed in unannounced. On screen, Dev Sahib appeared in his signature style—collar turned up rakishly, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. My granddaughter let out a scream, as if witnessing a crime in progress.
“Why are you watching this filthy film, Nana?” she exclaimed. “That horrible man is smoking. Smoking!”
“Yes, dear,” I replied calmly, “He is smoking. My generation did it quite a lot. It was practically a personality statement for actors like Ashok Kumar, KN Singh and Humphrey Bogart. Smoking added a certain suave charm.”
“I wish you wouldn’t socialise with these dirty people,” she said, implying that I expected Bogart to drop by in the evening for a drink.
In a moment of fatal candour, I confessed: “You know, I used to smoke too.”
Suddenly, there was pin drop silence. Ekya stared at me in horror as if I had just admitted to being a regular on Epstein’s island.
Sheepishly, I tried explaining the context of our era. Film stars made smoking glamorous. ‘Kool’ cigarettes made smoking appear cool. Even the prime minister was occasionally seen with a cigarette. We were products of our time, thoroughly brainwashed by advertising and cinema.
None of the excuses impressed her.
“Never mention it again, Nana. And never in front of my friends,” she commanded, as if my past would contaminate her entire circle of social justice warriors.
My wife and I had always believed in the mythical bond between grandparents and grandchildren—a relationship of pure affection, free from the usual parent-child friction. The early years fulfilled that promise beautifully: endless cuddles, bedtime stories, and unconditional adoration. Then the grandkids entered middle school and discovered correctitude! Suddenly, everything became a battlefield—habits, attitudes, clothing, language and even one’s manner of breathing.
It was Ekya who brought this reality into sharp focus. One afternoon, she looked at me squarely and declared, “Nana, why are you so weird?”
“Huh?”
“Your dressing sense is pathetic. Your attitudes are strange. You use funny words. You’re politically incorrect. And your ideas about the world are… quaint.”
Of all these charges, I could have anticipated only the ‘funny words’ accusation. Days earlier, I had casually mentioned using the Subscriber Trunk Dialling facility for long-distance calls in my college days. The acronym STD sent Ekya into hysterics that lasted until dinner. On another occasion, I nearly uttered the ‘N’ word before correcting myself to the ‘B’ word. She gravely informed me that even the ‘C’ word was now off-limits for Afro-Americans. I countered by informing her that I grew up with Noddy books featuring Big-Ears and Big-Golly, the golliwog.
“A golliwog? What’s that?”
“You really don’t want to know,” I said smugly.
“I’m sure the usage was rude and insensitive!”
I argued that politically incorrect words often carried raw honesty. “Take the word disability. It’s neutral; even the UN uses it. But “divyang” suggests divine ability, which feels like a patronising joke. Sadly, society keeps inventing gentler euphemisms, but they too become tainted, forcing a new cycle.”
“Political correctness fades,” I continued. “‘Untouchable’ became unacceptable, so Gandhiji coined ‘Harijan’—God’s own people. That too became pejorative. Then came Dalit, Bahujan… each term begins pristine and ends in the dustbin of wokeness with time.”
“But one has to be sensitive, Nana,” sniffed Ekya.
“Sensitivity has given us spokesperson, chairperson, and businessperson,” I countered. “Imagine ‘personhole’ instead of manhole! The Navy would sink under midshippersons. And I will never call a batsman a ‘batter’—that’s a cake mixture!”
The generational divide due to heightened awareness extends beyond vocabulary – to even food choices. I relish deep fried pakoras and view ghee as an essential nutrient. Ekya approaches every meal like a moral referendum. One bite of refined sugar, and I stand accused of planetary destruction.
“Nana, that has palm oil in it!” she gasps at a samosa order on Zomato, launching into lectures on global warming, deforestation, and carbon footprints. My simple pleasures must meet woke culture standards. Even my ‘improper’ sense of humour invites censure. I once shared a mildly cheeky joke about marriage. Ekya stared in horror: “Nana, that’s problematic.”
In my day, very few things were ‘problematic’ – we laughed at ourselves, at each other, and at life’s absurdities without fear. Today, comedy is curated and sanitised. What I find uproariously funny often elicits only a weak smile, if anything, from my granddaughter. Even genuine amusement is suppressed, lest it offend some invisible audience.
I do not claim my generation was perfect. We smoked too much, spoke boldly, argued passionately, and wore our convictions openly. We observed basic courtesies but refused to walk on eggshells. Ekya, by contrast, inhabits a world of curated outrage and performative virtue. Every statement is weighed for potential harm; every choice judged against shifting standards of propriety.
Our differing perceptions convince me that grandparents are from Earth while grandchildren hail from an entirely different galaxy. Mercifully, love bridges the woke chasm—awkwardly, but frequently enough.
kcverma345@gmail.com
Elections Are Injurious to Health
With all the political incorrectness I can muster at my age, as well as all the middle-class angst at my command, I hereby declare that elections are injurious to my health, and positively fatal for the Indian urban middle-class household. The lofty ideals of democracy and universal franchise sound magnificent on primetime TV and in essays written for the civil services examinations. In real life, however, elections bring the sad realization that the missus can no longer kneel to scrub the floor, and I cannot carry three kilos of vegetables without risking an inguinal hernia.
After our vacuum cleaner conked out last year, I must have begged the missus a hundred times to have it repaired. But no – she remained smugly complacent in the security that only a maid of Phulwanti’s calibre can provide. With her around, we needed no vacuum cleaner or dishwasher or washing machine. Now, without warning, we have been thrown into a Phulwanti-less maelstrom, because she has gone to some hellhole in Bengal to cast her vote.
This ballot nonsense has proved to be a killer not just for us but for many others. Sudha, my wife’s bestie, cancelled the kitty at her place, because her maid left for Alappuzha and will return only after the new government is sworn in.
“Maybe she thinks she is the bloody Governor,” sniffed Sudha.
The missus informed me in a catty manner that Mrs. Sharma, our resident fauji’s wife, has requested her in-laws not to visit Delhi till the end of June. “‘Too hot,’ she said. Totally omitting to mention the small detail that her entire domestic staff has gone to their native village in Tamil Nadu to vote.”
Misserji and Kani Babu dropped in yesterday evening and the latter kept grumbling about life. “My Istri Kora went home to Howrah for the elections. How long can I live wearing crumpled Panjabis?”
“We too have a problem,” said my wife, hoping to avoid making tea for the visitors. “Our maid, Phulwanti, went to Midnapore to vote and we really don’t know when she will return.”
Kani Babu almost exploded. “Phulwanti? Phulwanti! Is that her name? That is not a Bengali name at all. She must be a Bangladeshi infiltrator with a fictitious name. She is an imposter. One of these days you will certainly wake up to find that this dushto naari and her boyfriend have poisoned you to death while you slept.”
I was speechless. I did not know which was harder to visualise: waking up to discover I am dead, or suspecting our loyal Phulwanti of skulduggery, along with her non-existent beau.
“Arre yaar,” drawled Misser Ji. “I have not been able to get my hair cut because my Assamese barber has gone to vote. And yesterday, someone mentioned that business in Surat has come to a grinding halt because of labour shortages.”
“Thank God I was able to stop Bassa Ram, our driver, from going away. Though he is a voter in Haryana, Pugalendhi, who runs the corner dosa shop, persuaded him to go along to Puducherry to cast his vote as Bassaramam. He promised that he would earn return train fare and two thousand bucks. So, I upped the ante and promised him twenty-five hundred!”
My wife, that tireless defender of constitutional values, was horrified. “How could you?” she thundered, eyes blazing with outraged patriotism. “You are undermining democracy!”
“Undermining democracy, my foot! What about those willing to pay Bassa to travel to Jhumri Telaiya or wherever to impersonate Bassaramam? Political parties have been bribing voters for decades. They just package it in fancy terms like ‘welfare schemes’, ‘guaranteed minimum income’, and ‘DBT’. Some states have squandered away so much that they can’t even pay their own employees’ salaries. Yet when I do the same to keep my household functional, I become the villain and murderer of democracy?”
“Is Indian democracy more gravely threatened because a few maids miss one polling day, or is the Indian middle class facing greater peril because the bai does not turn up for work?” wondered Kani Babu. He then declared with finality, “In my opinion, there is nothing more depressing than a maid-less home! The absence of the hireling is an existential threat to the Indian household. Whether you like it or not, democracy will survive.”
As I lay awake last night, I kept thinking about the upheavals caused by the recent elections to just a few state assemblies. I couldn’t even begin to imagine the colossal chaos when ‘One Nation, One Election’ gets implemented! No matter how fancy an acronym might be coined for it, the prospect fills me with dread. ONOE sounds suspiciously like ‘Oh No!’—which is my reaction when I think of the consequences of elections throughout the country at the same time. Mumbai will grind to a spectacular halt. Chennai will be gloriously paralysed. Kolkata will finally have an excuse for continuing its time-honoured tradition of dignified non-functioning. Only the people in Delhi’s government offices might not notice any difference – because nothing much happens there anyway.
Ultimately, I went to sleep with the thought that the great engine of democracy will finally run on a single, synchronised track—and the middle class will be the first casualty, left holding two kilos of vegetables, and a broken vacuum cleaner in a maid-less home.
kcverma345@gmail.com
Strategic Timeout in Dire Straits
Chintu, the snot-nosed eight-year-old from next door, has this endearing habit of floating in and out of our apartment. Not a single day passes without him wandering in, casually inspecting our fridge for a snack, and taking a banana or whatever else that isn’t nailed down.
Yesterday, he sauntered into my study while I was watching the news. The TV anchor, clearly operating on fumes and hyperbole, was breathlessly announcing the imminent use of nuclear weapons, with dramatic footage of fighter jets and tanks rolling across the screen.
Chintu burst out laughing. “Uncle, why are you playing my war video game?” With a shock, I realised that in this age of deepfakes, old fogeys like me can no longer distinguish between reality and algorithmic mischief.
Embarrassed, I quickly flicked to another channel. There, a suited diplomat, a half-naked astrologer, a kathak dancer, and a retired general were screaming and apparently fighting over a cooking gas cylinder.
“Why do they all shout at the same time, Uncle?” Chintu asked innocently.
Out of the mouths of brats, indeed, cometh wisdom. I had no answer. Desperate for respite, I switched to an IPL match. The commentators were marginally less hysterical, but a smug ticker informed viewers that noise in the stadium had hit 121 decibels. Grok, my AI sage, informed me that this level is ‘Dangerous: can cause permanent hearing damage in 9 to 30 seconds.’
Enough! I switched the TV off, shooed Chintu out, and escaped to the condo park where old fogeys like me gather every evening. We grandly style ourselves the “FourEss” – the Samosa and Serious Study Set; but we fool no one. We remain a bunch of sad old retirees with little in common, except having time on our hands and a weakness for samosas.
Timir, the daft duffer from upstairs, was already parked on his favourite bench, muttering incoherently. “Such a shameless generation! Why open a dessert named after a fallen woman? Can’t they call the mousse something decent?”
Everyone ignored him, as usual.
Recent events have prompted Brigadier Sharma, our resident fauji, to claim expertise over more than just matters military. To his formidable repertoire of tactical wisdom, he has added oil trade, sulphuric acid, strategic affairs and strategic timeouts. With his cap slightly askew – the one with the single embroidered star – he pontificates on Gazprom, sour crude from Venezuela, the Serena Hotel in Islamabad, the DRS and the art of blockading blockaded waterways, all in the same breath.
Our resident Bihari, Misserji —freshly converted to cricket after one of Lalu’s progenies expressed interest in the game—clashes regularly with the brigadier over IPL tactics. Kani Babu, poor soul, still struggles to differentiate between the teams. “They all wear similar coloured pyjamas,” he grumbles. “I keep mixing up IRGC, MI and IDF.”
Binnoo summed it up beautifully: “The world’s a crazy place! The Saudi Royals are against bombers. The Rajasthan Royals are against bouncers. The USA is against Iranian ships docking in Sri Lanka. The Punjab Kings are against docking of match fees. And the American people are against kings!”
As the conversations swirled, Timir piped up again: “The new generation coins such crude names — no finesse whatsoever!”
Mazhar Bhai and Basu meanwhile started arguing whether there was a ceasefire or the fire continued. “If there’s no breakthrough, China will win,” said Mazhar. “If they don’t breakdown, Gujrat Titans will win,” said Binnoo. “Forget it,” drawled Basu, “Didi will shaartainly bhin!”
Unable to follow the conversation, Bhatti, in his usual whining manner, complained, “Epic Fury, Fist of Fury, blind fury? Why is the Pope involved in the war? Will someone tell me what’s happening in the world?”
Mazhar Bhai roared with laughter. “Arre, no one tells me what’s happening even in my own house! And you want a briefing on global affairs?”
Gopu added cheerfully, “Remember Op Sindoor of last year? One channel reported that INS Vikrant had attacked Karachi and then sailed on to capture Lahore. Now the same channel claims the United Nations is stockpiling nuclear weapons to discipline rogue states.”
Timir piped up once again, “Will anyone please explain why a dessert named after a woman of easy virtue should be opened?”
That’s when it hit me – a perfect epiphany. I recalled the closing scene of Orwell’s Animal Farm, where the exploited animals peer through the farmhouse windows in horrified confusion, unable to tell the pigs from the men, or the men from the pigs. We old fogeys, huddled before our idiot boxes, also live in an Orwellian world. We can no longer distinguish Trump’s war from the IPL, or the IPL from Trump’s war.
Our Kafkaesque bewilderment is complete – videogames, lungi-clad cheerleaders, guided missiles, hysterical TV anchors, white cricket balls and aircraft carriers capturing Teheran have all blended together to form an absurd creamy smoothie of nonsense. Human behaviour seems recurringly disorientating and overwhelmingly alienating. In this brave new world, there is no constant, except surreal logic and quiet despair. And maybe samosas!
I lingered longer than usual on the park bench last evening, letting the babble wash over me until dinnertime. As I rose to leave, Timir’s plaintive voice floated after me one last time: “Is the dessert called ‘whore mousse straight’ open or closed?”